PART VI Day thirteen, Wednesday, October 30

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Wednesday, October 30

Key West, Florida


In folklore, the time of night between midnight and four a.m. was known as the witching hour. It was the point of the evening when the powers of a witch or a magician were considered to be at their strongest. It was Patrick’s, as Patricia, favorite time to find his next victim. His targets were inebriated and looking for companionship. They were easy marks. Only one had put up a fight, and he had been easily disposed of in the mangroves.

The lack of power in the Florida Keys changed the way Patricia conducted the business of killing. The bars, never to miss an opportunity to serve drinks, fired up their generators and poured their whiskey. Frozen drinks cost an inordinate premium, as did any cocktail requiring ice. Lukewarm beer was embraced by the patrons without complaint. Music blaring from a boombox was more than enough to set the tone for the partiers trying to cope with TEOTWAWKI—the end of the world as they knew it.

Tonight, Patricia had to get an earlier than usual start because the governor had declared martial law. The local authorities agreed to look the other way so the bars could allow people to blow off some steam, but they let it be known that midnight was closing time. No exceptions.

During the day, Patrick contemplated his life as Patricia. He was beginning to see a time when killing opportunities would be fewer and far between. He only knew how to use the cover of bars and an inebriated mark to find his next victim. He’d thought about life after the bars closed permanently, but until that happened, he’d look for a new companion every night.

Besides, now he didn’t have to take them very far. There were a dozen bars within a couple of blocks of the Island State Bank building where he’d set up his vault of torture. The law had their hands full, and therefore Patrick could get his hands bloodied more often.

Patricia casually strolled up Whitehead Street on the sidewalk in front of the post office. She considered taking another side street to make her way over to the Roost, a local bar that was the location where she’d met her second kill. Like her last kill, where she met the victim at the Green Parrot, coaxing a drunk man a couple of blocks was not that great a task.

Patrick was drawn to the post office because of the police activity. It had taken him several trips to tote the trash bags on the gray Rubbermaid cart he’d stolen from the back of Margaritaville. During the early morning hours, he didn’t draw anyone’s attention. He was surprised later that afternoon after he woke up to hear the sirens and discovered the dumpsters hadn’t been emptied like normal. It was purely bad luck that those same dumpsters had become a buffet line for the homeless.

Not that it mattered, because he was being extremely careful as he honed his craft. He was meticulous about not leaving fingerprints or hair fibers not that the sheriff’s department had the means to analyze anything. Without power, all they could manage to do was rudely evict people from the Keys who had no place else to go.

As Patricia made her way around the post office and back onto Fleming Street, she noticed Homicide Detective Mike Fleming wandering the grounds with his flashlight, searching for clues. She wanted to wave her fingers at Mike. Give him a little toodle-oo as she walked less than twenty feet away. I see you, Mikey, but you don’t see me.

A grin broke out across her face. This was going to be fun. She’d pick out her next target and march him right past Mikey and his buddies. They’d never be the wiser.

As planned, Patricia found a seat at the bar of the Roost and sipped a glass of red wine. The place was hopping with activity. She waited to be noticed by the right guy, and if she wasn’t, then she’d become a little more aggressive and choose one.

Midnight was approaching, and she started to feel the pressure of picking out a partner to play with for the night. She made her move on a couple of late-night drinkers, but she was unsuccessful. Had she lost her touch? Did she not dress sexy enough? She didn’t want to overdo it under the circumstances. Most people wore the same clothes day after day. They were unkept and were beginning to smell. Patricia had planned ahead for that by filling the bathtub with water and being judicious about bathing. If anything, she was clean.

Then opportunity knocked in the form of a hayseed with a hideous Southern accent. Patricia could barely stand the guy, who seemed to talk like he had a mouthful of nails. Be that as it may, he was more than drunk enough and certainly frisky, too.

The young guy spun around playfully on the black barstool and ran his fingers across the green marble inlaid bar top as he spoke. After a while, Patricia actually took a liking to the guy and considered leaving him there. Then he made a couple of remarks about the other patrons in the bar that annoyed Patricia. They were out of line and inappropriate. The shiny new toy had lost his luster, and it was time to get down to business.

Patricia whispered in his ear and provided him all kinds of promises of debauchery. The young man easily took the bait. They left the bar arm in arm and wandered the dark, mostly deserted streets of Key West toward the bank and its newly repurposed vault.

Only, they weren’t alone. They were being followed.

Patricia feigned being entertained by his jokes. She playfully swatted away his clumsy groping attempts. They made their way slowly down Duval Street until they turned by St. Paul’s Episcopal Church. The red wooden doors to the historic church established in 1832 remained open, as they had since the day after the nuclear attacks. The parishioners did the best they could to feed and clothe displaced travelers. Throughout the night, people arrived seeking shelter.

Patricia and her new friend stumbled across Eaton Street to avoid a swarm of people who were breaking into the Tropic Theater, looking for a place to sleep. The two men who followed lurked in the shadows and used the people wandering the sidewalks to blend in.

When the seemingly drunk couple made their way to the front of the Island State Bank, they were laughing and talking about all of the sexual acts they intended to perform on one another. Patricia held the railing and her guest, whom she helped up the steps to the front doors. Having practiced the maneuver the night before, she learned how to handle her man while unlocking the entrance. Once inside, if he face-planted onto the rug, all the better. He’d be in for some real pain soon enough anyway.

Once the doorway was opened, the young man stumbled forward. Only, he didn’t hit the floor.

Patricia did. It would be the beginning of the worst day of Patrick Hollister’s life.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Wednesday, October 30

Central Virginia


Peter awoke rested but extremely sore. He’d used muscles that he didn’t know he had, although his upper legs suffered the most. He cursed as he made his way to the bathroom to relieve himself. With each attempted step, his hamstrings and quadriceps hit the floor with a jolt. If he pushed off too hard, his calves joined in the torturous motion, drawing more verbal assaults from Peter.

These were the primary muscles used to move the bicycle forward, but he found his shoulders sore from tension as well. His constant firm grip on the handlebar had resulted in his upper body being tense. The old adage sore all over certainly applied to Peter.

He swallowed three Aleve he’d secured from the pharmacy and repacked his gear to include some of the things he’d found at the golf course, including batteries, kitchen knives, and several tools out of the shed that might assist him in repairing his bicycle. He also packed a bottle of Chivas Regal scotch and several bottles of Fiji water. Somehow, the thought of a nightcap at the end of a long day of riding gave him a rewarding inducement to keep going.

Before he left, Peter took the time to bury the dead man. There was a mound of topsoil behind the mechanic’s shed. The man’s grave was shallow, but he was covered with both a tarp and the topsoil. Peter located a small cart trail sign and used it as a grave marker. He found a can of white spray paint to cover over the green and gold stenciling.

Lastly, using a black Sharpie he found in the shed, he simply wrote R.I.P. It was the least he could do for yet another victim of the nuclear war. Little did he know, it would not be the last one he’d come upon that day.

Peter locked the clubhouse as he left and started his day as an experienced long-distance cyclist. By his calculations, he’d traveled sixty miles that first day. If he didn’t pick up the pace, it would take him three weeks to get to Driftwood Key. After the muscle soreness wore off, he did just that.

He rode steadily through small unincorporated communities like Locust Grove, Mine Run, and Belmont. It was a mostly pleasant ride through the vast farmland of Central Virginia. He rarely encountered a stalled vehicle, and it was only occasionally that he noticed people on horseback riding across their farms.

The number of living refugees walking along the road were few. The number of dead who’d been rolled onto the gravel shoulder or into a nearby ditch were far greater. Their lifeless eyes stared toward the sky. Their mouths were agape, as if their last breath had been a plea for mercy.

As for the living, they were close to joining the dead. Their eyes were sullen, filled with sadness and despair. Their faces were gaunt, and their bodies had withered to the bone from lack of nutrition.

Peter fought the sense of decency within him to stop. Everything he’d been taught growing up and learned as a young man compelled him to do something. But he couldn’t. There were too many in need for one man on a bicycle. He barely had enough supplies for himself to make it a few days. Soon, he’d have to forage again.

Plus, there was the inherent danger of being ambushed. This happened to him after he’d been riding for several hours that morning. He’d studied the map of Eastern Virginia as he rode, to confirm his anticipated route. As he made several turns on one county road to another, he realized Lake Anna was coming up ahead of him.

Peter knew nothing about traversing a dystopian landscape other than what he’d watched on The Walking Dead or imagined on his own when he was a teen. One of the things that concerned him the most was crossing a bridge, especially if it was over water. This had always been the case for Peter, as he routinely drove up and down U.S. 1 in the Florida Keys. The Seven Mile Bridge, not far from Driftwood Key, was an example he often gave when expressing his safety concerns.

Bridges leave no place to bail out to, he’d explained. If you suddenly approach an accident on most roads, you could drive off into a ditch and run into the woods or a field to avoid trouble. What do you do on a bridge? Jump in the water fifty or sixty feet to your possible death?

All of these things were going through his head as he rode up to the Belmont Road bridge over Lake Anna. There were several men walking south toward the other side on the two-lane county road. As was typical for back roads, there was no shoulder, and the concrete barriers seemed to squeeze any traffic toward the middle.

The wind was blowing that morning from the north, causing temperatures to drop lower than the day before. The men were hunched over with camouflage hunting jackets wrapped around them. From that distance, Peter couldn’t make out any weapons, but as a precaution, he retrieved his pistol and gripped it with his right hand as he approached them.

Peter hoped the windy conditions would mask the near-quiet sound of his pedaling. His bike made very little noise as it rolled along the concrete pavement. Unlike many bicycles that produced a slight clicking sound when the rider coasted, this Schwinn model did not.

As he got closer, he saw that one of the men was carrying a rifle in his right hand. Then suddenly one of the men turned toward Peter just as he approached the trio. He, too, had a rifle and was beginning to raise it in Peter’s direction.

Peter drew faster. “Don’t move! I mean it! Do not raise that rifle!”

His demands caused the other men to turn. One of the men raised his rifle toward Peter anyway. He had no choice.

As he continued to speed up on them, Peter opened fire. His first shot struck the man who threatened him directly in the chest. The second missed badly. However, the man spun like a top and fell to the pavement in a heap.

Peter kept pedaling, charging toward them as if he were on a horse. The second man hastily raised his rifle and began firing as he did. The AR-15 sent bullets skipping along the concrete just past Peter’s bicycle.

Peter fired back three times. The first two missed, but the third struck the man in the right arm, causing him to lose his grip on the rifle. He screamed in pain as he dropped to his knees and used his left arm to halt the blood from gushing out of the brachial artery in his upper arm.

The third man, an older teen, actually reached down to pick up the first man’s hunting rifle. Peter was on top of them at that point. He skidded to a stop and quickly dismounted from the bike. He walked toward the teen with the gun pointed at his head.

“Don’t do it!” Peter growled.

The boy’s eyes were wide with fear. He hesitated, and then he continued to reach for the rifle.

“Don’t, dammit! I will kill you!” Peter’s voice was menacing and convincing. The teen raised his hands sheepishly and backed away from the dead man.

Meanwhile, the wounded shooter reached toward his AR-15. This caught Peter off guard, and he spontaneously reacted by shooting the man in his left arm. The man rolled over and over away from Peter, writhing in pain and crying out, imploring Peter to stop.

Peter swung around to determine if anyone else was coming toward him after the gunfire filled the otherwise quiet morning. There was no one, so he turned back toward the group. He waved his gun toward the young man, who’d apparently peed his pants. He was leaning against the guardrail, nervously looking back over his shoulder as if he was contemplating jumping.

“Don’t jump, kid. I’m not gonna shoot you,” said Peter before explaining his intentions. “None of this would’ve happened if he hadn’t raised his gun toward me.” He nodded toward the dead man.

“People on bikes shot his sister two days ago. She died last night.” The teenager began to cry.

“I’m sorry about that. He shouldn’t have—”

“Arrrggghhh! Help me!” The wounded man was bleeding profusely.

Peter turned around to check his back and then looked forward down the road. There were a few small houses around, but there were no signs of movement despite the exchange of gunfire. He was about to order the teenager to help his friend when he heard a splash. Peter swung around, and the boy was gone. He’d jumped over the rail into the icy water of Lake Anna.

“Shit!” he exclaimed. He set his jaw and shook his head in disbelief. He turned to the wounded man and shouted his questions. “Do you have any more weapons?”

“No. No. He’s got a Glock in his coat pocket. I don’t have anything, I swear.”

Peter moved slowly toward the dead man with a watchful eye and the barrel of his pistol on the wounded man. He felt around in the man’s coat pockets and retrieved the Glock nine-millimeter pistol together with a box of ammunition. He set them next to his bike, and then he turned his attention to the other weapons. He gathered up the two rifles and brought them back to his bicycle as well.

“Do you have ammo?” he asked the bleeding man.

His left arm was less wounded than his right. He winced as he patted the side of his jacket and began to pull the ammunition out.

“Slowly!” shouted Peter. He carefully watched the man’s movements and was relieved as he pulled out two magazines filled with ammunition from his jacket. He slowly set them on the pavement next to his dead friend.

Peter rushed forward and grabbed them. Then he knelt next to the man and talked in a low voice. “I’m gonna give you some bandages, but you’re on your own. I’m not a doctor, and I’m not gonna let you or anyone else get the jump on me.”

“You gotta help me,” he pleaded.

“No, I don’t. You guys should have never raised your guns toward me.”

Peter stood and marched back to the bicycle. His first aid supplies were in the lightweight backpack slung over his shoulders. He pulled out a small bottle of spring water, a roll of gauze, and a tube of Neosporin triple antibiotic ointment. The gunshot wound was far more serious than the lacerations Peter had experienced around Driftwood Key, but the principles of wound care were the same.

“Flush the wound with this water. Pack the bullet holes with the gauze and apply the Neosporin. Then keep pressure on them until you can get some help.”

“But—” The man began to beg for Peter’s help, but it wasn’t forthcoming.

“Good luck,” Peter responded in a cold, callous way. The good-hearted member of the Albright family was becoming desensitized to gun battles and killing.

And this was just the beginning.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Wednesday, October 30

Interstate 70 near the Utah-Colorado State Line


Just like any road trip, eventually the travelers run out of things to talk about. Especially when the road they’re taking provides nothing of interest except endless rocky surroundings and the occasional stalled car. By the time Owen pulled onto Interstate 70 and crossed over into Colorado, the weather had cleared somewhat although the wind continued to gust, forcing the top-heavy Bronco into an occasional unintentional swerve.

For the first part of the day, the McDowells talked about how gracious the bishop and his wife had been. They’d allowed the trio to eat the remaining stew Anna had made in the Crock-Pot using the church’s solar panels for energy.

Bishop Gates had explained the difficulty he’d had keeping the solar batteries at full charge. He’d had the presence of mind to purchase backup solar charge controllers when he installed his array. Along with other electronics he used frequently, Bishop Gates stored extra parts in galvanized trash cans to protect them from solar flares or nuclear-generated EMPs. For a brief time, his array had been disabled until he’d swapped out the damaged parts.

A problem he hadn’t anticipated was the haze resulting from nuclear winter that had covered North America. It prevented the sun from doing its job. They’d learned to be more judicious with their energy usage by cooking a little at a time throughout the day to allow the batteries the opportunity to recharge.

Owen’s concerns about traveling on the interstate were valid, but the two hundred miles through the mostly uninhabited stretch of mountains toward Grand Junction produced nothing in the way of human encounters. Live ones, anyway.

There were several decomposing bodies seen off the side of the road. The wind had pushed away the previous day’s snow accumulation, exposing the corpses. At first, the family was sickened by the bodies. Then they began to accept what had happened as part of the world they were in. If anything, seeing the dead strengthened their resolve to survive by whatever means necessary.

Suddenly, the rocky, gray earth that had been the norm in Utah gave way to a variety of shrubs and brush. A sign on the side of the road made of stone pillars and carved wood read Welcome to Colorful Colorado. It marked the state line between Utah and Colorado and was intended to point out how the barren surroundings began to show signs of life with plant material.

Tucker, however, pointed out the obvious contradiction between the sign’s intended meaning and reality. “Everything is dying.”

The sagebrush, juniper, and kinnikinnick that were native to the Colorado mountains were drooping and turning brown. There was sufficient snow on the ground to provide the plants moisture. The problem was the lack of sunlight. Even the prairie grasses were laid over on their sides, dying from their inability to trap light energy as part of the photosynthesis process.

“This is what Peter warned me about on the phone that day,” began Lacey. “Dad told me the same thing. I guess he befriended a woman who was the secretary of agriculture.”

“Wait. When did that happen?” asked Owen.

“Oh, I forgot to mention her to you. It was when the whole false-alarm thing happened. Anyway, the fires creating all of this soot are going to kill plants and crops soon.”

“It’s already happening,” pointed out Tucker.

Owen turned on the windshield wipers as the snow began to fall again. The small flakes didn’t warrant the wipers, but the ashy substance mixed in immediately smeared the windshield with black streaks.

They were approaching Grand Junction, and Lacey once again focused on her map duties while the guys got out and filled the Bronco’s gas tank. With this fill-up, they’d be down to three of the six-gallon gas cans, enough to take them another four hundred miles.

“I found us a way around Grand Junction. We’ve had pretty good luck so far, but this is the biggest city we’ve come to. You know what they say, luck always seems to run out for the guy who depends on it.”

“How far out of the way does the other route take us?” asked Owen as he settled into his seat and buckled the seatbelt around his waist. Tucker finished securing the empty fuel cans and settled into the back seat.

Lacey laughed. “On paper, it should be a shortcut. But the road obviously winds its way along the top of a ridge. There’ll be plenty of bends in the road, but it’s probably deserted.”

Owen turned over the motor of the ’67 Bronco and smiled as it fired up. He’d never intended it to be used on long road trips, and he was thrilled with its reliability. When they’d purchased it, Hayward to Lake Tahoe would’ve been the extent of Black & Blue’s travels, and they’d never actually done that, opting instead for the far more comfortable and modern Expedition. It was the same modern truck that was now a ruined hunk of scrap metal and worthless parts back in California.

By the time they took the curvaceous county road around Grand Junction, they’d emerged on the other side, and U.S. 50 was no longer joined at the hip with the interstate. They were on the final stretch of mountainous highway and looked forward with anticipation to more hospitable weather.

The winds had picked up once again, and the skies were filled with the sooty snow. By the time they reached Gunnison, the gateway to the ski resort area at Crested Butte, the highway had iced over in spots, and driving had become more treacherous than what they’d experienced thus far.

They all agreed, however, to soldier through the adverse conditions. The remote area of Colorado offered them nothing in terms of places to sleep or find gasoline to refill their spent containers. With an exchange of fist bumps, the family made a pact to cross the Continental Divide so that they’d be downhill to Florida, as Tucker put it.

They wound their way up the mountains toward massive Mount Aetna, the nearly fourteen-thousand-foot peak just west of the Divide. They reached a trailhead and found a place to pull over next to the sign marking the geological boundary separating the Western U.S. from the East. Tucker filled the gas tank again while Lacey retrieved the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on homemade bread provided by Anna. Thanks to the bishop and his wife, they had food to last several days in addition to their own packaged meals.

The group was in high spirits near the high point of the Rockies. It was too soon in their journey to calculate miles and days until they arrived in the Florida Keys, where the group was sure sunshine and warm temperatures were still the norm. They would be content with the flatlands of the prairie for starters.

CHAPTER FORTY

Wednesday, October 30

U.S. Route 50

East of Pueblo, Colorado


“Wow! Wide-open spaces, right?” said Tucker jubilantly as the highway emerged from the never-ending mountains and canyons they’d been driving through since they left Utah. They’d easily managed to drive through the small towns of Cañon City and Penrose without incident. It was in Penrose that they observed an operating vehicle for the first time. It was an old International Harvester tractor.

They were now facing a drive through the sizable city of Pueblo, Colorado. As they approached, one glance to their left distracted them from the trip across the outskirts of town. It was a massive blaze that could be seen to their north.

The mountains to the west of Colorado Springs were engulfed with flames. Black and gray smoke mixed with fire shot upward for as far they could see toward Denver. The air in the valley became so dense with smoke that it permeated the inside of the Bronco through the air intakes that drew heat from the engine block.

“Cover your faces, everyone,” ordered Owen as he pulled his sweatshirt over his nose and mouth.

“It’s causing my eyes to water,” said Lacey.

“Mine too,” added Owen. “I’ll pick up speed and try to drive out of this. It doesn’t look as dark up ahead.” He gestured through the windshield with both of his index fingers.

“What if I turn off the heater, and we stuff something in these vents?” asked Lacey.

“Can’t hurt,” responded Owen. “From the looks of that fire, it should be a lot warmer outside.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Tucker. “Those flames seem like they’re reaching a mile into the sky.”

While Lacey worked diligently to close off any air vents, Owen gripped the wheel and sped up, dodging disabled vehicles on the highway. As expected, there were more obstacles in the larger town but still very few signs of people. They might have caught a break in that regard, but the focus drawn by the stalled cars was a distraction for Owen, who’d been diligent about monitoring the older truck’s instrument panel.

They weren’t due to refuel for another hundred miles, and his speed was dictated by the number of cars blocking the road. As they all focused their efforts on avoiding breathing the contaminated air, he didn’t notice the temperature gauge that was part of the round speedometer located at the center of the dash. It was steadily rising as the smoke from the wildfires began to clog the truck engine’s air filters with contaminants. In essence, the Bronco couldn’t breathe, and it was beginning to overheat.

“I think we’ve got them all,” Lacey announced as she leaned back in her seat. The air vents were stuffed with washcloths and socks.

Owen raced past the Pueblo airport and the looted Target Distribution Center on the east side of town. As they put several miles between them and Pueblo, they began to notice the drop in temperature once again.

“Can you believe the fires warmed the air that much?” asked Lacey. “If it weren’t for the smoke, it would’ve been nice to thaw out for a little while.”

“Too late for that, I’m afraid,” added Owen.

“It’s less smoggy now. How about some fresh air?” asked Tucker.

“Not yet, son,” said Owen. He hadn’t complained, but his throat had been sore for two days. It was itchy as if it had been scratched by something. To get some kind of relief, he’d been constantly swallowing his saliva, but that only served to make his throat more raw.

Because their watches no longer functioned, telling time was impossible. They basically mapped out a day’s worth of travel, and once they reached a certain point, they’d begin looking for a spot to sleep for the night. And, with a little luck, they could find more gasoline.

Pueblo had been their designated stop, but because of the thick smoke that engulfed their truck, they had been forced to continue on. Darkness was setting in, and like the previous few nights, the winds and cold air picked up with the lack of any sunlight.

“What’s the next decent-sized town?” Owen asked.

Lacey paused for a moment as she flipped through the pages of the map book. “Well, it’s roughly two hundred forty miles to Dodge City, Kansas, where we ditch Highway 50 and start working our way south.”

Owen nodded and glanced at the fuel gauge. He did some quick mental calculations based upon the remaining gasoline in the containers.

“We’ve got enough fuel to make it. It all depends on if we wanna push—”

He stopped midsentence and unconsciously let off the gas pedal, causing the truck’s torque to drop the front end. The unexpected change in momentum thrust both Lacey and Tucker forward in their seats.

Within seconds, their trip came to an abrupt halt.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Wednesday, October 30

Near Amelia Court House, Virginia


Peter began to wonder if there was such a thing as having too many firearms. In addition to the duffel bags strapped to the bicycle’s rack, he had a Remington 700 hunting rifle tied to the top. He still rode with a backpack and the sling bag that contained his original stash of handguns with ammunition. It now contained a Glock pistol and extra magazines for the AR-15, which was also shouldered on his back. In addition to being bulky, it added quite a few pounds to the load he had to carry.

Yet he pedaled on. Much farther than he’d originally envisioned when he set out that day. He’d crossed over Interstate 64 and the James River, both of which led directly into Richmond barely thirty miles away to the east.

Hour after hour, he put distance between himself and Washington. Gradually, the number of refugees on the road thinned out, as did the number of dead. He tried to reason with himself as to why that was the case. He surmised it was the fact he was in a more rural area. Then he contemplated how the passage of another day had resulted in more people dying from dehydration or radiation poisoning.

He’d been judicious about wearing the gaiter over his face. The frigid arctic air that had invaded the Continental U.S. made the face-covering more tolerable and even a necessity. At first, he’d cursed the cloth gaiter as being akin to wearing a diaper over his face, but eventually he got used to it.

He was also diligent about taking the potassium iodide and the other supplements he’d acquired. Only time would tell if they helped him. All he knew was that it had been several days since DC had been hit, and he was not feeling the ill effects of the radiation that raced outward from the nation’s capital.

He continued to tick off the miles as he drew closer to the small town of Amelia Court House. In Virginia, many of the towns that were also a county seat were called Court Houses.

Unlike the word courthouse, which applies to the actual building that was the center of government in a town, places like Amelia Court House, and its more famous neighbor Appomattox Court House, where the end of the Civil War was negotiated, were common across Virginia.

The town appeared to be little more than a crossroads from what Peter could tell on the map, but he was uncomfortable traveling through it in the dark. He’d decided it was better to see what lay ahead of him rather than continuing to travel on unfamiliar roads at night.

Peter barely caught a glimpse of a barn sitting on top of a hill off the highway. The gravel road was overgrown with weeds, and the galvanized mailbox was rusted, barely hanging onto the wooden post in the ground. Everything about the place looked abandoned, so he took a chance.

It was difficult to ride up the hill on the part gravel, part dirt driveway. Each time he hit a sharp edge of the limestone rock, he feared he might puncture a tire. The thought caused chills to run up and down his spine as he envisioned walking a thousand miles to the Keys.

The long tree-lined driveway wound its way up the hill toward a clearing. Once he’d made it into the opening, he was able to see a white, two-story farmhouse sitting near the barn. Peter was leery of his surroundings. The buildings appeared to be abandoned, but without entering, he really couldn’t make that judgment.

In a world without electricity, it was not unexpected for a house to be dark inside. However, most farmers kept a ready supply of candles or even kerosene lanterns, as power could frequently be lost in a storm. Unlike metropolitan areas where power lines were buried underground, most rural areas still utilized old-fashioned power poles spaced a few hundred feet apart. It was not uncommon for trees or heavy limbs to strike a power line, leaving residents in the dark.

Peter gently laid his bicycle on its side in some tall grasses. He opted to carry his handgun inside to check out the house instead of the more powerful AR-15 or the hunting rifle. He was not that familiar with the AR-15, having only fired a similar weapon in Abu Dhabi under duress. He had no recollection of how the gun worked. Plus, he’d replenished his supply of nine-millimeter ammunition on the bridge that morning.

As he trudged up the hill toward the house, he began to get an uneasy feeling that he was being watched. Perhaps it was the eerie weather that lent the appearance of a horror flick. Or perhaps it was the fact the farmhouse looked like so many others in movies where mass murders took place or hauntings scared people to death.

He tried to shake the thought out of his head. Peter laughed, chastising himself aloud. “Get a grip, Pete. Norman Bates doesn’t live here.”

Peter decided to take a different approach than he had the night before at the golf course clubhouse. He knocked loudly to make sure anyone lurking behind the thin white curtains adorning the windows wouldn’t consider him a threat.

“Hello? Is anybody home?” he shouted loud enough to frighten off an eastern screech owl that was hanging out near the barn, looking for field mice.

After no answer, he tried again. “My name is Peter Albright! I’m from Wash—um, Fairfax. I’m making my way home to Florida, and I wondered if you’d let me sleep inside tonight.” These days, claiming to be from the District didn’t endear him to those outside the Beltway.

There was no answer and no sign of activity. He tried banging on the door again.

“Hello! I’m unarmed,” he lied as he surreptitiously shoved his pistol into his paddle holster. He held his hands high in the air to sell the subterfuge.

Peter walked up and down the front porch. The wooden boards gave under his feet, weakened by years of exposure to the elements. He reached the end of the wraparound porch and stared over toward the barn. He glanced down the side of the farmhouse and then upward toward the bedroom windows. The glass was still intact, and there was no sign of a candle flickering inside.

Convinced that the property was vacant, Peter walked to the back of the house to check for vehicles. When he found nothing, he made his way into the barn. There was an old tractor inside and farm implements scattered about. The horse stalls were empty, and there was no evidence of livestock feed stored anywhere.

“Well, alrighty then,” he muttered as he wrapped his jacket around the front of his body. The plunging temperatures left him dismayed. He’d learned a lot about nuclear winter in the last couple of weeks, but he hadn’t thought they meant it literally. Perpetually cloudy skies were one thing. Subfreezing temperatures in late October were another.

Peter marched across the open area between the house and the barn. A gust of wind pushed him forward slightly, and then the sound of a door slamming frightened him. He was exposed, and his instincts forced him to one knee.

Then the door slammed again. Peter’s head was on a swivel as he looked for cover. The wind was suddenly blowing hard, and it chilled him to his core. He glanced to his right and discovered several ton bales sitting just behind the back of the house. Many years ago, older balers produced smaller square or rectangular bales. The modern balers produced large round bales known as ton bales. They didn’t necessarily weigh a ton, as most reached fifteen hundred pounds.

Regardless, they were Peter’s best source of ballistic protection at the moment. He rose to a low crouch and rushed across the yard before sliding to a stop behind the hay bales. He sat with his back to the hay as he gripped his weapon. He was closer to the house now and began to realize the sound of the door closing was rhythmic, not sporadic as if someone was coming or going from the house.

He rolled his eyes for letting his fear get the best of him. “It’s just the damned wind blowing a shutter or something, Pete. Get your ass up and check out the house.”

He did as instructed and rose to his feet. Still, he was alert as he rounded the ton bales to approach the back door. He held his gun in a shooter’s position directly at the door until he reached the first step leading to the back porch. A wood-framed screen door was the source of the slamming sound as it was pulled out and pushed inward by the wind gusts.

Peter wedged his body between the screen door and the Dutch door leading inside. He tried the knob and found it to be locked. He turned his pistol in his hand and gripped it by the muzzle. Then he gently tapped the glass window with the pistol grip until a part of the pane fell inward. He gently tapped out a couple more pieces and reached in to unlock the door.

Peter turned the handle and pushed it open, but he remained behind the wall. He held his breath and attempted to listen over the now howling wind. A strong gust hit the back of the two-story farmhouse with a broadside slam, causing dust to fall off the rafters of the porch roof. Peter kept his focus and listened for any signs of movement inside.

After a moment, he stepped into a hallway that was lined with bench seating and wooden pegs protruding from the walls. Some held horse tack, and others were covered with a variety of jackets. Rubber work boots were lined up under the bench seats, as were several pairs of well-worn tennis shoes.

It was dark now, and Peter had to risk using his flashlight to walk through the house. He retrieved it from his Velcro cargo pockets and pushed the rear button to power it on. He adopted the crossover grip he’d used effectively in the last several days to clear interior spaces and moved deeper into the farmhouse.

The first room he came to was the kitchen. He immediately noticed something odd about it. Nearly all of the wooden cupboard doors were open. And the shelves had been emptied. However, it did not appear to have been looted. The residents, or somebody, had picked the place clean without causing any damage or mess. Nothing was in disarray, including the small corner table sitting at the back of the kitchen. A recipe book was sitting open, and a single stem vase, complete with a dead flower, remained undisturbed.

He walked through the kitchen and entered the dining room. Like the kitchen, everything was in perfect order. The table was set. Chairs were pushed in. The china cabinet was still filled with family heirlooms.

To Peter, the place seemed to be abandoned. Yet something in his gut said to call out again.

“Hello! I mean you no harm. I just need a place to sleep for the night. Please show yourself so nobody gets scared and makes a mistake. Okay?”

Like before, nobody responded, but out of precaution, Peter continued to search the remainder of the house. He shuffled along the old plank flooring that had been installed when the home was built in the 1830s. With each step, the floor gave a little and squeaked where the planks were nailed to the floor joists.

After searching the upstairs, he entered the foyer and spun around, marveling at family photos adorning the walls. Whoever owned the home had relatives dating back to the Civil War. There were several photographs taken using the original wet-plate negatives that took nearly twenty seconds of exposure to generate an image.

Peter shined his light on each of the pictures as uniformed men cast their gaze upon him from above. He shuddered as he thought of the history of this old home. If only the walls could talk, he thought to himself.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Wednesday, October 30

U.S. Highway 50, East of Pueblo, Colorado


Owen was frustrated and angry with himself. He looked forward in dismay as steam billowed from under the hood of the Bronco. He’d been so careful about monitoring his gauges and took his eye off the ball for just a few minutes as the wildfires distracted him. If he’d been paying attention, he would’ve stopped miles back closer to Pueblo to allow the engine to cool. At least he could seek out help in the larger town than what he expected was in front of him.

“Where are we?” he asked with a sigh. It was now dark outside, which required Lacey to use her flashlight to read the map.

“When did we pass through Pueblo? Twenty, thirty minutes?”

“I don’t know,” Owen snapped back. He immediately felt bad for his tone of voice and apologized. “I’m sorry, honey. This is my fault. I wasn’t paying attention.”

Lacey set the map on the dashboard and turned toward her husband. She placed the flashlight under her chin, pointed upwards, just like we all did as kids to make a scary-looking face at Halloween.

“Look at me,” she said with her teeth bared menacingly.

Her attempt to turn her sweet face into something frightening failed in that respect. Otherwise, her ploy worked, and Owen immediately burst out laughing.

“You can’t be funny when I wanna be mad and frustrated.”

“Yes, I can.” She snarled and made other facial contortions.

“What are you? Five, six years old?”

“Maybe?” Lacey stuck her tongue out.

Owen threw his head back and let out a hearty laugh. Tucker, not unexpectedly for a teenager, didn’t find his parents so humorous.

“You guys are weird.”

Lacey started laughing and exchanged high fives with her beloved husband. The two then reached across the console to hug one another and kissed.

“Weirder and weirder,” mumbled Tucker as he sat in the back seat with his arms folded. “What are we gonna do?”

“Do we have a manual for this thing?” asked Lacey as she opened the glove box. She set the handgun on top of the map book and fumbled through the papers. Other than insurance information, registration, and half of her peanut butter and jelly sandwich she was saving for later, it was empty.

“No,” said Owen. His mood became dour again. “Honestly, I never thought I’d need one. I guess I could’ve bought one on eBay or someplace, but I never imagined I’d need it. It’s not like this truck has any bells and whistles on it.”

“Dad, shouldn’t we take a look? It could be something simple.”

“Tuck, I don’t know anything about cars. I never had that car gene that my friends had growing up. As long as I could turn the key and make it go, I was fine.”

Lacey had returned to the map. “Well, to answer your question, I think we’re right about here.” She pointed to a point on the map to the east of Pueblo near the Arkansas River that snaked along the north side of the highway. Owen leaned in to study the atlas. To give him some context, Lacey traced their route and then ran her finger along the highway toward the east.

“It’s hard to tell,” said Owen. “Whadya think? Four or five miles to the next town?”

Lacey shrugged. “Probably. Maybe a little more? Plus, there might be some farmer along the way who knows the difference between a radiator and a transmission.” She laughed at Owen’s expense.

Owen stuck his tongue out at his wife in the dark. “Yeah, well, I know the difference between an algorithm and a bitmap.”

“Are we gonna take a look at fixing this thing or not?” Tucker was growing impatient as the inside of the truck began to get cold.

Owen turned and motioned for his jacket. “You wanna help?”

“Sure,” Tucker replied unenthusiastically.

The two McDowell men stepped out of the truck and quickly donned their jackets. Using Tucker’s flashlight to guide them, they lifted the hood of the Bronco and propped it open with a metal rod attached to the frame. Steam came billowing out and quickly mixed with the soot-filled air around them.

Both guys began to cough as they waved their hands back and forth to clear the air. Finally, with the aid of the flashlight, they were able to see the top of the motor.

Sitting atop the four-barrel carburetor was an exposed air filter topped with a polished chrome lid with the name Edelbrock embossed into it. The filter, which was usually white, was black and dented. It had been taking in debris and smoke their entire trip. The trip through the dense, smoky air in Pueblo had caused it to choke off completely.

There was another obvious problem. A hose running from the radiator had developed a crack. Owen didn’t know if the two problems were related or coincidental. Nonetheless, it would need to be replaced.

Owen shuddered as a gust of cold wind swept over them. He carefully reached into the engine compartment and squeezed the radiator hose. The crack grew wider and emitted a little more steam. Radiator fluid was dripping from beneath the truck as well.

“Well, shit,” he muttered as he stared at the engine with his hands planted on his hips. “This is a hot mess.”

“Sure is,” Tucker mumbled his reply. “What are you gonna do?”

Owen looked behind the truck and tried to calculate how far he’d traveled since Pueblo. If it had been twenty minutes or more, even at a brisk pace, he’d have to backtrack six hours or more. He swung around and looked down the dark and empty highway as far as the conditions allowed. It would be an hour, maybe two, until the next town. He shined the light at the engine again.

“Let’s get the tools and take off this hose. I think I just need a flathead screwdriver for the hose. I can twist off the wingnut from the air filter cover with my fingers.”

While he did that, Tucker retrieved the screwdriver. Ten minutes later, the parts were removed, and Tucker was sitting in the driver’s seat while Owen spoke to Lacey through her window.

“Are you sure about this?” she asked, concern in her voice. “I mean, we can wait until morning.”

“Honey, it’s gonna get cold and really uncomfortable out here. I can make my way into town in an hour or so and be back before you know it.”

Lacey offered him the pistol. “At least take this.”

Owen shook his head. “I won’t need it. I mean, what are they gonna steal from me? A busted radiator hose and a clogged air filter? I want you guys to be safe until I get back.”

Lacey couldn’t argue with him. She reached through the window and pulled his head closer to hers. They kissed one another and lovingly tapped their foreheads together.

She choked back the tears as she spoke. “Please be careful. Don’t take any chances, okay? We’ll be fine.”

“I promise. I love you,” he responded and then looked into the truck to make eye contact with Tucker. “Stay alert and watch out for your mom. Okay?”

“No prob, Dad.”

With those final words, Owen marched down Highway 50 in search of parts for the truck. He glanced back once and waved to his family. The second time he tried to give them another wave, darkness had surrounded him, leaving him alone.

He saved the battery life on his flashlight and turned it off. He zipped his jacket up to his neck and pulled his tee shirt through the tight-fitting North Face collar to cover his mouth and nose. The ashy smell aggravated his throat, but the face covering helped him stave off the cold somewhat.

Owen tried to walk at a brisk pace. Visibility was low, so he looked down constantly, simply focused on following the center line of the highway. He didn’t expect to encounter any vehicles, so getting run over wasn’t a concern. He actually laughed at one point as he thought about how rebellious he was being.

Then another cold burst actually pushed him forward slightly, causing him to stumble. He shoved the radiator hose under his jacket and ran his arm through the filter so he could keep his hands warm in his pockets. Owen hunched over in an effort to stay warm, looking down at the dual yellow stripes that were starting to get covered by a light snowfall.

The snow began to accumulate, and soon he found himself kicking through it with his sneakers. His pants legs became damp as the moisture began to soak up to the middle of his calves.

Owen began to shiver. The wind picked up and began to emit an eerie howl at times. Then, in the pitch darkness, something happened to the north of Highway 50 that had also occurred in the late fall of 1836. At the time, it couldn’t be explained. If today’s weather watchers had fully functioning instruments, they would’ve been able to tie the rare anomaly to the fires surrounding Denver and the Arctic air pushing in from Canada. However, they didn’t, and therefore what happened next came without warning.

A dark cloud, traveling over thirty miles an hour, descended from the northwest. It was accompanied by a roaring noise that frightened Owen so bad he ran out of the middle of the road, thinking a dump truck was barreling toward him.

Only, it wasn’t a truck.

Within minutes, as the cloud passed over him, temperatures dropped nearly sixty degrees as a flash freeze enveloped him. The subzero temperatures caused any form of moisture on his body or clothing to freeze in an instant. His tee shirt slipped beneath his nose, and the mucus that dripped out froze to the top of his lips.

Owen struggled to run. He was barely able to force his legs forward. Just ahead, he saw a pickup truck parked on the shoulder of the road. It had bales of hay stacked haphazardly in the back.

He gathered his strength and pushed the unexpectedly bitter cold out of his mind. He reached the truck and tried to get inside, but the doors were locked. He returned to the tailgate and tried to open it, but it was frozen shut.

His breathing became labored. He was unable to blink, and his eyesight began to become fuzzy. Owen pulled himself onto the rear step bumper and flung his body into the back. Then he did his best to move the hay bales around to seek some form of protection from the flash freeze that engulfed him. He burrowed under the straw, using what was left of his strength to avoid the extreme cold.

He shivered violently. He gasped for breath as he struggled to stay warm. His skin felt like it was burning. He became confused as to where he was and what was happening to him. He had visions of Lacey and Tucker, like watching a movie at thousands of frames per second. Tears emerged from his eyes and then froze.

And then, as if his surroundings weren’t already pitch-black, Owen’s mind found darkness of its own.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Wednesday, October 30

Near Amelia Court House, Virginia


“Pa, somebody’s comin’,” eleven-year-old Cletus Munford whispered to his father, Nelson. “He’s walking up the hill.” Young Cletus kept his eyes glued on the person, using the small slat opening underneath the front porch of their home. The light was dim, but the silhouette of the figure that approached could be seen against the rocky driveway.

Nelson pulled his son down from the produce crates he stood on to see outside. He peered through the slats himself to confirm what his son reported just as the approaching man’s legs disappeared up the steps toward the front door.

He abruptly turned around and grabbed his son. “Cletus, go alert your mother and sister. Tell ’em we got company.”

“Yes, Pa,” the boy responded politely before disappearing.

The man walked across their porch, bellowing as he went. Nelson Munford chuckled and spoke in a hushed tone to himself.

“Yeah, sure. Mister nice guy just wants to close his eyes for the night. Ain’t no marauder comin’ near my wife and baby girl.”

He took a deep breath and held it so he could focus on the man’s movements. Nelson had been born in that home and had spent almost every night of his life in one of its bedrooms. His parents had passed, and his brothers had been lost to wars in the Middle East, but he remained behind to continue their farming operation while caring for his family.

His wife, Marjorie, suddenly appeared by his side. Nelson turned to her and relayed what he knew.

“Seems like only one man. He’s headed back toward the barn now. He’s been out there hollerin’. He claims to be a nice guy. I don’t believe anybody, do you?”

“Nah. Sure don’t. We heard what happened to our neighbors when they let their guard down. They died. I’m not gonna die ’cause some stranger says he’s safe.”

“Come on,” said Nelson as he gently nudged his wife back toward the center of the house. They’d had this basement hideaway since the days of the Civil War. Once the conflict broke out, the Munford family began to prepare for the battle to be brought onto their fields. All around them, the North and South fought one another until the final days came in April of 1865.

Cletus took up a position on another stack of crates at the back of the house. He watched as the man emerged from the barn and then suddenly became frightened when that creaky screen door came loose from its latch due to a gust of wind. It was a sound the family was used to. It had been that way for the boy’s entire life.

The family intently listened once the sound of breaking glass could be heard at the back door. The man’s shuffling footsteps caused their youngest, eight-year-old daughter Patience, to gasp. Her mother calmed her down, and then she reminded her to stay quiet.

Young Cletus grabbed his lever-action Henry .45-caliber rifle. It was a powerful gun for a teen, but Cletus was a strong youngster raised on a farm.

His mom took a firm grasp on her shotgun, which was ready to do its job. Nelson readied his Henry rifle, which was identical to his son’s. Like father, like son. Just as it had always been in the Munford family for nearly two hundred years.

They were ready.

The intruder’s flashlight grabbed their attention as it illuminated the basement through the knotholes of the plank flooring. As he slowly walked around the kitchen and into the dining room, dust began to fall off the rafters onto their heads.

The trio walked together, slowly in the dark, confident in their familiarity with the dirt-floor basement that had been their hiding place since the bombs dropped. Nelson led the way as Cletus and Marjorie walked side by side, tracking the intruder.

They positioned themselves under the foyer as the man trudged up the stairs toward their bedrooms. Marjorie bristled at the thought of a stranger traipsing through the rooms where her children slept. Where she and her husband had created their precious lives. Anger built up inside her as she thought of the intrusion on their privacy.

“He’s coming back down,” whispered Nelson to his family.

The man’s flashlight shined through a knothole and washed across Nelson’s dusty face. He quickly pulled his head aside to prevent being seen. In the foyer, the man wandered slowly, shining his light upward on the members of the Munford family who’d inhabited the homestead in the past.

Nelson positioned himself under the knothole and stared upward. The man stood directly over him. He turned to his family, and in the dim light, he nodded to his wife. Marjorie leaned over to her daughter.

“Cover your ears, dear. And, honey, don’t look up, okay?”

The child nodded.

Nelson made eye contact with his son, who also nodded, indicating he was ready. Then, in unison, as the Munford family had practiced, they raised their weapons to the underside of their entry foyer. With determined looks on their faces, the Munford men cocked the hammers on their rifles and prepared to fire.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Wednesday, October 30

Florida Keys


Hank had tried to remain busy around Driftwood Key to avoid thinking about Lacey and Peter. His children were out there somewhere, he was sure of it. Despite the travails they were likely facing, at least they were alive. He knew this to be true.

With each passing day, the Florida Keys was becoming a microcosm of the suffering being felt around the nation. While the remaining inhabitants of the islands weren’t subjected to the direct radioactive fallout from the detonations, they were exposed to the nuclear winter that had traveled completely around the planet.

Plant life was suffering already. Dead seabirds were floating onto the beach. The skies remained a drab gray, but they didn’t produce any sort of rainfall. And temperatures were dropping.

Some of the lowest temperatures ever recorded in the keys occurred in 1981 when Key West dropped to just forty-one degrees in January. Since 2000, the lowest recorded temperatures occurred in January, as was typical, but hovered near fifty. That night, as the last day of October approached, the thermometer mounted on the front porch of the main house had dropped to forty-six. Over each of the last four nights, the lows had reached the upper forties, an unheard of reading for October.

That, coupled with the perpetually hazy skies, had already taken its toll. It was affecting humans as well. Seasonal affective disorder, or SAD, was a form of depression that goes with the changes from fall into winter. Inhabitants of the Keys didn’t experience this type of mood change. In fact, they rejoiced at the hint of cooler weather as an opportunity to wear a sweater or sweatshirt at night.

The general feel of depression was exacerbated by the lack of resources on the keys. Every retail store’s shelves had been emptied by buyers or looters. Food wasn’t scarce. It was nonexistent. Bottled water was gone. Gasoline pumps, even if they worked without power, would have nothing to distribute.

Driftwood Key was an exception. Through Hank’s planning and the Frees’ stewardship, they were able to create a sustainable resort operation capable of feeding a dozen people with daily fishing to supplement their food.

All they had to do was protect what they had from those who had nothing. The group prayed for the safety of Peter, Lacey, and her family. However, they agreed that the survival mindset of the Albright children would give them a better opportunity to stay alive than most.

That night, Mike and Jessica were away on police business. Hank had hoped they’d find a way to stay closer to Driftwood Key. Their experience with firearms was necessary to protect his family and their resources.

Phoebe had just turned in for the night after she’d gone over the status of their supplies with Hank. He was too wired to go to sleep, so he fixed a pitcher of mojitos and settled into a wicker chair on the front porch of the main house. Sonny and Jimmy were patrolling the shoreline nearest the highway. Hank said he’d keep an eye on the dock and the beachfront facing the Gulf. He promised them he’d stay awake until at least midnight.

He didn’t.

After a couple of drinks, Hank set the glass aside and decided to rest his eyes for a moment. He listened to the water gently lapping onshore and tried to imagine the days when the inn was full and the weather wasn’t over twenty degrees below normal.

He’d dozed off completely when there was an uproar at the bridge entering the island.

For twenty-two hours, Patrick Hollister had been brutalized and raped by his three assailants. The young man in the bar had been tasked with picking up an attractive woman. His brothers, two career criminals from West Virginia, had suggested the guys head down to the keys to look for work just before the attacks.

When the bombs dropped, they found themselves in Key West with no place to stay and no money. To survive, they engaged in petty theft and burglary, stealing food and money. They’d seen Patrick, as Patricia, walk into the bar alone. Their perception of her was that she had money and was lonely. She had been targeted by the men for multiple reasons, but they had been surprised when they forced themselves into the bank building.

The attractive woman was a man. He was surrounded by money, food, booze, and a car full of gasoline. The fact that he was a man was infuriating, as they’d had plans for the woman known as Patricia.

For hours upon hours, they drank and took out their anger and frustration on Patrick. He was beaten unconscious several times, which protected him from what happened while he was incoherent. The degenerate men were merciless, thoroughly enjoying themselves as they treated Patrick as subhuman.

After they were done with him, they filled Patrick’s car with anything of value, both monetary and nutritionally. Then they loaded his limp body into the back seat with the intention of dropping him over the railing of the Seven Mile Bridge as it crossed the water toward the Middle Keys.

However, when it was time to dispose of the nearly dead Patrick, they hadn’t factored in the continuous stream of refugees walking from Key West toward the mainland on U.S. 1. Without an opportunity to dump the unconscious Patrick, they continued toward Marathon, debating what to do with him.

Then Patrick woke up. Because he’d suffered internal damage from the beating, he immediately vomited in the back seat. The three men were incensed and pulled down a side street toward the Gulf, where they dragged him out of the car. He tried to crawl away, which earned him a swift kick to the rib cage, which forced another round of retching.

The men laughed at Patrick, took turns spitting on him, and then raced up the highway, leaving him for dead.

Only, Patrick wasn’t dead. He lay there for a while and tried to open his eyes, which were swollen shut. He tried to make out the buildings around him. Northwestern Mutual’s investment office appeared to be across the street. He noticed the furniture store that was a customer of his bank.

He struggled to breathe. He could barely move. His bones weren’t broken, but his insides were so battered he was certain his organs had been rearranged. Every orifice was bleeding, causing him to be weak.

Then it came to him. If his bloody mouth didn’t hurt so bad, he would’ve smiled at the irony. He made a decision. Patrick hoisted himself up and began to drag his legs, one at a time, to get help.

Hank was jolted awake by the wail of the marine air horns that were carried anytime someone was on patrol. They had a case of them stored on their boat to be used in case of emergencies. Mike thought the airhorns would be a perfect alternative to two-way radios to sound an alarm.

He bolted out of his chair and began to race down the steps until he slid to a stop. He ran back up the steps to retrieve his rifle. He cursed himself for falling asleep and spontaneously shouted, “I’m coming!”

Hank raced through the palm trees that separated the bungalows from one another. His chest was heaving as he dashed past them and lowered his head at times to avoid low-hanging fronds. The shortcut saved him time, and he reached the crushed-shell driveway quickly.

He slowed as he approached the gate, relieved there was no shouting or gunshots. The warning might have been a false alarm or perhaps something that wasn’t life threatening.

The silhouettes of Jimmy and Sonny standing with their rifles pointing toward the gate could be seen. Their flashlights lit up the bridge, but Hank couldn’t make out any cars or people. When he arrived, he was still uncertain of why the alarm had been raised.

“Mr. Hank! Come quick!” yelled Jimmy as if Hank weren’t moving as fast as his sixty-one years would allow.

By the time he arrived, his chest was heaving as he gasped for air, and he bent over with his hands gripping the rifle across his thighs. He looked up and saw the reason for the alarm.

“Mr. Hank,” explained Sonny, “this man says he knows you.”

“Hank,” the man began just above a whisper, “it’s Patrick Hollister. I’ve been robbed and need help.”

“Patrick?” asked Hank.

“What should we do, Mr. Hank?” asked Jimmy.

Hank handed his rifle to Sonny and then responded, “Let’s help him in.”

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